


I'm Gonna Protect You

by indecisive (darling_highness)



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_highness/pseuds/indecisive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Money's tight between Bucky and Steve, and when things get really tough, Steve resorts to some pretty drastic measures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Gonna Protect You

Januaries in Brooklyn were always cold. Snow fell and icy winds blew it into the faces of anybody outside. Steve hated it. What with his weak immune system, the cold always brought him down with something or other that left him drained for weeks.

Steve sat by the furnace with his hands outstretched, nearly touching the hot iron, in an attempt at avoiding the biting cold that lurked in the far corners of the room. He shivered anyway, clutching the almost threadbare blankets around his shoulders. Steve glared at the frosted windowpanes. His attention was dragged to the door as it swung open with a burst of cold air. Bucky's square figure loomed in the frame as he kicked the snow from his boots. “Brr! 's the storm of the century out there, Stevie! How you holdin' up? I got you some things from the pharmacy. This stuff's killer-diller.” Bucky tromped over to where Steve sat in his rickety wooden chair and flashed a dry grin. He handed a brown glass bottle to Steve and retrieved a teaspoon. “Take your fix, you look sick as a dog.”

Steve poured himself a spoonful and sipped it down, gagging from the awful taste on his tongue. After he swallowed it, he produced a disgusted cough. “What the hell is this stuff? It tastes awful.”

Bucky shrugged out of his coat, using the motion as his answer. “It says the name on the bottle. Can't remember what the dame at the pharmacy told me it was.”

The name didn't matter much so he handed the bottle and spoon to Bucky when he passed into the kitchen. “How was work?” he rasped.

“Just dandy.” He replied, peeking out of the kitchen. His smile was forced, humourless laughter behind it. “As good as it gets. How's cheating death for the millionth time?”

Steve shrugged. “Doesn't really feel like I'm winning this time,” he muttered.

“I'll make you some soup.”

“I can do it,” Steve protested. He began to stand but Bucky directed him a pointed look. “You need to rest,” he began.

“ _You_ need to rest. I got it. Give your gams a break.” Bucky disappeared into the kitchen once more. Steve stood up, his petulant attitude driving him to the kitchen.

He hobbled into the nook of a room and leaned against the counter, staring at Bucky with tired eyes. Before he could turn, Steve was pressing his forehead into Bucky's back, groaning. “Buck, I feel awful.”

“I know, Steve. Sit your ass down before I make you.”

“Make me,” he mumbled. With a sigh Bucky turned and grabbed Steve by his waist, lifting all 98 pounds of him like it was nothing. He set Steve in a chair at the table and the aforementioned slumped over, resting his head against the wood. Steve's eyes slid closed and he sighed a wavering breath. Sweat gleamed on his skin in a thin film. Bucky clucked his tongue and scooped Steve up again, holding him in a bundle against his chest. “You're too sick to be out of bed. Dunno why you even got up today.” Steve rested his head against Bucky's shoulder and said nothing. He was tired, so tired. He let Bucky put him in his bed and cover him with blankets. He fell into a fitful sleep, and let Bucky tend to him.

*

Two weeks pass and everything went back to normal. Painfully so. Steve had been dragged into an ally to take a couple punches to the face after a petty argument with a coworker. He struggled against the fist against his chest holding him to the wall, shouting angry curses at the assailant. The man lands another blow, throbbing pain blooming from his eyebrow. He screws his eyes shut with the pain. Next thing he's falling to the concrete, clutching his face as the sound of skin on skin echoes off the brick buildings. Steve squints through his fingers to see Bucky wailing on the man, the muscles in his arm straining with the effort. His opponent fights back, kicking and shouting. It's a dirty fight. It ends with both Bucky and Steve waiting to be treated at the hospital, Steve nursing a bruised face and Bucky a fractured shin. Bucky needs a cast fitted for his leg, so the duo departs from the clinic late in the night. They trudge home in silence. The only words spoken are from Bucky. “We can't afford any more fights, Stevie. Hell, we probably can't even afford dinner right now.” Steve knew they were in trouble the moment they had to hand over $300 to cover their treatment.

*

Bucky isn't fit to work with his broken leg. Which means no money. No money means no food, no home, no clothes. Steve sets out to find a second job. The way the economy is, he does not hope for much. Nothing turns up. He's lucky to have the one job, and desperate for a second. Steve takes the long way home through Brooklyn. He can't stand the idea of coming back empty handed. Not again. Throngs of people hustle around him, partaking in whatever sinful treats Brooklyn has to offer in exchange for their money. Steve looks longingly through windows filled with laughing faces and inviting atmosphere with promise of a good time. He only looks. That is until a promiscuously clad woman calls out to him, extending a gloved hand. She leers in his direction, imploring he come closer. Lo and behold, Steve does. He assumes she is a call girl, what with the area they're in and the atmosphere of the building behind her. “You looking to make a few bucks, kid? I seen you 'round here lately. You look jus' hopeless. I can help ya.” The lilt of her accent makes Steve's skin crawl. Beggars can't be choosers, he thinks. He follows her inside.

As he's on his way home once more, Steve struggles to find a way to tell Bucky. He can't tell him what he's going to be doing for money. Bucky would never look at him the same way again, and Steve can hardly bear the thought of Bucky hating him. He'll say he found a waiting job at a swing club. Yeah, he thinks, that'll be the perfect cover. Steve enters the apartment with a shy grin. “Bucky, you won't believe it.”

Bucky looks up at Steve from the kitchen table. He set down the newspaper in his hand. “What is it?”

“I found another job. It pays well, too.” He can see Bucky's eyes light up and his heart sinks. He know's Bucky is going to ask for details. It hurts Steve to lie to him, but he does it for their sake. He does it for Bucky, for the love of his life. He doesn't want to see Bucky hurting anymore, and he'll do anything to prevent it. Even lie, if that's what it takes.

*

It's harder than he expected. The men he deals with are hardly ever gentle. More often than not, Steve ends the work day with a fresh smattering of bruises blooming over his over-gripped hips and thighs and arms. But it's work. It's just work. The extra cash flow does a number on Bucky's sullen mood. He smiles more freely now, the worry in his face evaporated almost in full. Steve bears the pressure of his job- his dirty secret- for Bucky. He tries not to let it affect him, but some nights when he finally lies down in his own bed after a specially rough session, he can't help but let a few tears fall. Weeks go by, and then a month. Bucky's birthday is fast approaching, and Steve wants to do something nice for him. Despite the money coming in, they have just enough to scrape by with a little comfort. The extra money isn't enough to buy Bucky something he deserves, so Steve resorts to being sneaky. He had gotten good at that in recent time. It was the 17th of March that he decided to act. It had been a slow evening for him, but one call girl was with a regular patron. He was wealthy by the looks of his well-made coats that seemed to be just Bucky's size.

When the call girl and her client went into a more secluded area, Steve lingered by the entrance. It didn't take long for the customer's shirt and coat to be off, piled in a heap beside the curtain hanging in front of the doorframe. Steve had his chance. He reached in and swiped the coat, stuffing the heavy material into his bag. Steve's heart pound in his ears with adrenaline. It barely fit, but he managed to get out the door without much of a fuss from anybody. Despite the windy chill of the city outside, sweat dampened his forehead. He had gotten away with it. Steve scampered home, slipping on grimy ice in his haste.

Bucky's birthday came that Saturday, and for once Steve felt ready for it. He had cleaned the coat and made it smell of fresh herbs to cover the musk of the brothel it frequented. It was a present sure to amaze Bucky, and Steve was proud to admit it. He slipped out of their shared room with the box under his arm and placed it on the kitchen table. Steve set to work making breakfast. He even felt good enough to hum a little tune.

“What are you so happy about?” A raspy voice inquired. Steve looked over his shoulder to see Bucky scanning the kitchen, his eyes darting from the box to Steve and back to the box. He sat at the table and placed his crutches against the wall behind him, brown eyes fixed on Steve.

Steve made both their plates of breakfast and placed them on the set table, shrugging. “Nothing,” he protested. “Here's to another year of life, Buck. Happy birthday.” Steve smiled and slid the box over before digging into his eggs and toast.

“Wow. A present _and_ a special breakfast. I almost feel wealthy.” Despite the sarcasm, Steve could see Bucky was delighted. His eyes twinkled with joy. Bucky shook the top off of the cardboard box. His jaw went slack and his eyebrows rose. “Steve,” he breathed. “Steven Grant Rogers.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “What did I do?” The way Bucky looked right then made Steve's heart clench. His reaction was so pure, so unadulterated it made a smile creep across his lips. He watched his companion like a lovestruck fool.

Bucky stared at him, his face the picture of childish enjoyment. “Who did you kill to get this thing?” Now he was pulling the coat from the box. Shame coloured Steve's cheeks. Bucky shrugged on the thick black wool, admiring the perfection of the fit. He reached over and grabbed the back of Steve's neck, giving him a good pat. He smiled so wide his dimples showed, and it was infectious. Steve smiled around his mouthful of food. “I really appreciate this. It's a great gift, but I can't help feeling bad. You're working so hard and I can't contribute because of this god damn leg.”

“Language,” Steve muttered. “It's not a problem. Anything for you, Buck.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “You've got to stop with that. You sound like a geezer whenever you make me mind my words.” Steve merely smiled.

Their day continued in a sort of domestic trance. Everything seemed peaceful and comfortable for once. The day was drawing to a close when things turned sour. Steve had just showered and for once he forgot to bring his clothes into the bathroom with him. He peeked his head out of the bathroom. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, and Steve only hoped he was in the kitchen. He dashed for the bedroom, hoping to get dressed before Bucky could see the bruises marring his skin. Luck wasn't on Steve's side. Bucky was sprawled out on his bed, looking through a Playboy magazine. Steve froze in the doorway and Bucky looked up from his magazine, his eyes going wide. Steve had tried to hide his chest with the bundle of dirty clothes but Bucky had seen. He had seen. “What the hell happened to you?”

Before he could reply Bucky was standing and limping across the room. He pushed Steve's arm away to asses the damage, eyes taking in the purple and yellowish green marks blooming over his hips and chest in vague shapes of hands. Steve struggled to find an answer. “I- I uh got in a-another fight,” he rasped, bowing his head. He was horrible at lying to Bucky and they both knew it.

“Are you sure? A fight? Do you wanna tell me anything?” Bucky rested his hand on Steve's shoulder, administering a reassuring squeeze. “You can tell me anything, Steve. I'll take care of whoever did this to you.”

Steve shook his head. He couldn't look Bucky in the eye. “It's fine, Buck. I'm fine, it was just a fight. It happens.”

“I'm not stupid, Steve,” he mumbled. “Is it someone you're seeing? You're not letting some guy take advantage of you, right? Tell me you're not.”

“No! I'm not a fairy!” Steve took on a defensive tone and gave Bucky a hard stare. “I'm not some pervert, Bucky. I know dames, if you catch my meaning,” he laughed but there was no humour in it.

They stared at one another for a long time. Steve grew nervous and he opened his mouth to continue speaking, but Bucky spoke first. “Okay. I believe you. When I get this goddamned cast off, I promise I won't let anybody else hurt you. I'm starting to think you work at a clip joint or somethin'.”

Well, he wasn't far off. “Why?”

“All the money, the coat, the fights... It's jus' unusual, I guess.” Bucky shrugged his response. “If I didn't know you better, I'd say you joined the mafia.”

Steve smiled up at his companion. “How do you know I didn't?”

Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve in an embrace. “Because you're too good a kid.” He was laughing now, and Steve relaxed.

“I'm five years older than you,” he chuckled.

“You're still a good guy.”

*

Bucky had his cast removed the following Tuesday. He went back to work, which meant another paycheck. They could afford to live a little, so that's what Bucky did. While Steve was at work in the evenings, he would come home and find Bucky wasn't there. Steve wouldn't have thought much of it if he didn't come home past 1 in the morning most nights. It was around 2:30 when Bucky showed up at the door, whiskey on his breath. He talked about the dames he met and what a good time they had at one of the more wild bars in New York. Friday and Saturday nights went like this on and off. Sometimes, Bucky even brought a girl or two home. One morning after he did, Steve was sitting at the kitchen table when a familiar girl stepped by in search of coffee. She hesitated by him, smiled and whispered a “Hi Stevie.” The girl was a prostitute from the brothel, and Steve's heart nearly stopped. He checked to see if Bucky was soon to follow, but when he didn't appear Steve quickly hissed an explanation and a swear of secrecy. As far as he knew, she didn't say a word.

Things proceeded as usual with the exception of Steve's bitter jealousy flaring up every time Bucky came back with more stories to tell. Steve worked longer hours to try and avoid seeing Bucky drunk and stupid. One night after weeks of employing this tactic, and an especially straining day at the whore house, Steve took off early. He was fed up from the rough handling and the hassling from a customer he turned away, and all he wanted to do was shower and get rid of the smell of sex on his skin before Bucky came home. He was a block from the apartment when he was dragged into an alleyway by his throat. The assailant gripped the column of Steve's neck and pinned him against the wall of the grime-ridden alley. It made Steve mad. He kicked and punched and tried to scream. He opened his eyes to find it was the man he had turned away at the brothel earlier because he was broke and drunk. He was still drunk and Steve could smell it when he talked. “I'll teach you to turn me away, ye fuckin gunsel. Teach ye righ here, righ'now.” The pervert fumbled with Steve's trousers, tugging them so hard the button popped off, allowing him access. Steve tried to hit him, but his feeble punches did nothing. The man pressed himself against Steve, slithering his hand into his pants and groping for his cock. Steve whined a broken cry, clutching the hand at his throat. He could do nothing to save himself. He just hoped it would be over quick. The man kept speaking, but Steve tried to block it out. His voice came in a violent, slurred hiss by his ear. “You should be thankful any'ody een wants you. Yer just a wee pansy that has to sell its body to een live 'round 'ere. 'nfact yuh can consider this a compliment-” he said no more before he was shook and dragged away from Steve.

A look of utter surprised painted his face when someone shouted, “That's enough!” Bucky was here to rescue him again. He was stunned by the whole situation, so he sat and watched as Bucky cracked a bottle over the man's head and then put his fists to use. The drunkard was nothing more than a twitching heap when Bucky was finished. He turned and snatched Steve up, asking, begging to tell him he was okay. Bucky carried Steve the rest of the way home. When they got inside, Bucky placed Steve on the couch and sat beside him, eyes searching his face. He looked shocked, like he had heard what the man said. A wave of fear practically drowned Steve when he realized that Bucky might have in fact _heard him._

Steve dared ask what the matter was. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Is it true? Is what he said true, Stevie? Have you been whoring yourself out? I- I mean, he was just drunk, right? Jus' some fat-head drunk pervert? Stevie,” he pleaded. Bucky's voice cracked and he gripped Steve's arm.

They were both shaking. Steve nodded once and lowered his gaze. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “You must hate me. I'm disgusting, I know... But I couldn't let us die,” a quiet sob wracked his shoulders. He did not see Bucky's reaction, because his face was buried against Bucky's shoulder with his arms wrapped tight around him.

Bucky held him close, a shaky breath brushing over the back of his neck. “Oh God, Steve. Why would you do that for me?”

It was a rhetorical question, he knew, but he had an answer. He was tired of lying to Bucky. “Because I love you,” he sobbed.

Bucky's fingers curled into the fabric of Steve's shirt. “You idiot... You beautiful fucking idiot.” Bucky was crying too. “I love you too, Stevie. I-I do too... Please, don't do this anymore. I can't stand to imagine any sickos touching you. We can make this work. We can... We'll do something...” Bucky tried to console Steve, but it sounded more to him that it was self reassurance. Steve reached up and combed his fingers through that thick black hair, pressing his face into his shoulder.

“We'll figure it out. Just- shut up and let me kiss you.” Steve leaned back and pressed his trembling lips to Bucky's. Butterflies tickled his stomach as Bucky wound his arms tighter around Steve, desperately leaning into the kiss.

They broke apart reluctantly and Steve released a wavering sigh. “Let's get you cleaned up. I'm gonna take care of you from now on. I promise,” Bucky squeezed Steve once more, kissing him again. “I'm gonna protect you.”


End file.
